


Home is where the heart is

by Sherlocked4Life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, Getting Together, Infidelity, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocked4Life/pseuds/Sherlocked4Life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The front door’s lock clicked and Mycroft’s eyes popped open the same moment his chest went cold. He had scanned Gregory’s flat many times playing out different scenarios and how they would get out undetected or with their cover intact. There was no way out of this one, though, of that he was certain.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>_____</p>
<p>A story of how Mycroft and Gregory's affair is discovered and the aftermath of that, overlapped with the story of how they ended up together to begin with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is where the heart is

**Author's Note:**

> There is one mildly explicit scene of Mycroft and Gregory's first sexual encounter, but this is mostly plot and feels (all of the feels).

 

 

The front door’s lock clicked and Mycroft’s eyes popped open the same moment his chest went cold. He had scanned Gregory’s flat many times playing out different scenarios and how they would get out undetected or with their cover intact. There was no way out of this one, though, of that he was certain.

_______

 

He had not engineered their current state of messy entanglement, but he had certainly done nothing to discourage it. Gregory and his wife had hit another rough patch, which meant longer and longer nights at the pub to avoid having to return home to face even longer nights on the couch.

Watching this pattern from the distance of the CCTV screens, Mycroft had found he was unable to detach so easily this time. It wasn’t as though this was the first time Gregory had increased his frequency of pub visits, nor the first time his marriage had run rough.

It was, however, the first time Mycroft had felt the absence of his puckish smile so acutely. He wasn’t even entirely certain when he’d started thinking of Gregory as puckish to begin with, or as ‘Gregory’ for that matter, and that was quite disturbing.

He had taken to having the feed that tailed the inspector up on his laptop most evenings as he worked, especially now that Sherlock had his new pet to keep an eye on him in Mycroft’s stead. He really only checked back on that feed in the mornings to see if Sherlock had managed to find and disable his network again so that he could get his people to try again. The current record had lasted nearly a fortnight, held by a young Mr. Hawthorne from his secondary detail at that time, quickly promoted thanks to that achievement.

But aside from providing an espionage challenge to his team, he rarely engaged those cameras anymore. He’d like to be able to convince himself that his new obsession was really just an extension of his overprotective brotherly concern, but he did so hate self-delusion.

No, this was something he hadn’t felt in quite some time and he was going to have to make a decision soon on how to handle this or it was going to start interfering with his concentration. Caring was not an advantage, but sometimes it wasn’t a choice either. 

_______

 

Her footsteps halted 3 steps into the flat as Gregory’s wife’s gaze fell upon the two men in her marital bed, nude but for a throw they had lazily pulled across their exhausted bodies sometime in the early hours once they were thoroughly spent.

Mycroft faced mostly away from the door that was open with a direct line of site to the front entryway. He didn’t need to look to know they had been made, so he closed his eyes and steeled himself for the storm to hit. This was not his fight, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t involved. He would take his cue from Gregory, who didn’t appear to have been roused by her arrival.

That was quickly remedied when Sharon’s shoulder bag hit the floor with considerable force, startling him awake.

“Love, are you…” Gregory froze, hand lightly pressed between Mycroft’s shoulder blades, as his copper instincts focused on the new and unexpected presence at the bedroom doorway. “Sharon…” It came out just above a whisper, then in a feeble attempt at explanation, “It’s…”

… _not what it looks like?_ But it was, and they all knew it.

_…not like you’re around ever anyway!_ And, though true, the blame could not be so easily transferred.

_...nothing you haven’t already done to me._ Oh, that one stung, but the wrong direction. He knew what it meant to be the betrayed, and it wasn’t a game of tit-for-tat.

_…what I needed._ No, he wasn’t ready to share that with her. It was, weirdly, too intimate.

“…time we talked,” Gregory finished after composing himself, and that was Mycroft’s cue. He slipped from the bed with a graceful motion and, gathering what undergarments had been tossed away carelessly the night before and scooping up his three piece from the back of the bedroom chair, he made his way to the en suite and quietly shut the door behind him.

Greg let Mycroft, unsurprisingly ever tactful, make his exit unhindered. Sharon was pointedly ignoring his retreat, focused entirely on her husband. Her cheating, lying, disgrace of a husband. At least that’s how Gregory felt now that his worlds had collided. 

_______

 

It had been easy to compartmentalize, given how often Sharon was away now. He had felt so terribly alone in her presence after her affair that he couldn’t bare to share her bed. Long nights on the couch were easily shortened by extended evenings at the pub. He knew it was moving into unhealthy territory, but being alone in a crowd was better than the alternatives.

This pattern had stretched out for weeks and his work was beginning to suffer. Long nights out and the relentless half-rest of the not-quite-long-enough sofa had long since taken their toll (he had refused the lilo when he had still thought it would only be a few days, and was too proud to set it up now).

Standing at the crime scene and clutching his coffee in a vice grip that threatened to collapse the flimsy cup at any moment, he slowly became aware of the presence that had moved to stand next to him. Shoulder-to-shoulder with this prim man, in his bespoke suit and public school demeanour, Gregory felt every sleepless night. He knew he looked a mess, but had stopped even trying to put up a front. This was his life now, and he was too tired not to be resigned to it.

They surveyed the crime scene from where they stood, but Greg’s mind was caught on why he’d found himself in this man’s company. Sherlock had not been called in on this one, nor had he flounced his way into the investigation on his own accord. From what Greg could tell, this wasn’t a government issue so no need for MI6 involvement.

And yet, here he was standing next to the eyes, ears, and sharpened stiletto of the British government with no earthly idea as to why. It was distracting.

The man himself was oddly distracting as well. Tall, but much more attuned to his proportions compared to his little brother. Impeccable and slightly quirky fashion sense that he would almost certainly blame on his tailor but Greg could tell he secretly loved. And, today, a much softer almost worried line creasing his brow, replacing the cold and detached government spy he’d learned to appreciate.

“I can’t, in good conscience, allow this to continue any longer, Gregory.”

The Holmes brothers often entered into conversations part of the way through; he was used to that and generally picked up the plot rather quickly. It was the use of his given name that rattled him. Given how little Sherlock valued that bit of information, despite being one of his only real friends in this world, he was touched that Mycroft had logged it as worthy of recall.

“Come.”

And with that Mycroft turned and strode down the road towards his usual unmarked car, clearly under the assumption that Greg would follow. And follow he did, tossing his wholly ineffective coffee in the nearest bin as he went.

The ride was… curious. Greg didn’t have the energy to wonder where he was going or why, never mind the strength to question his companion about it, but he was marinating in an ever-present sense that something odd was happening here.

He gave the appearance of watching the world scroll past his window, but it was merely that his head had lolled in that direction and he didn’t think to expend the effort to right it. Luckily, the tint of the window allowed for a clear reflection, and so he was aware that Mycroft was watching him intently in that way that only a Holmes did.

There were plans in the works here and as frightening as that should be, given the planner, he couldn’t help but feel relieved that someone had stepped up to take control of the life he had stopped managing himself. God help him, he was grateful for it – whatever _it_ was. 

_______ 

 

Mycroft clicked shut the door to the en suite and caught his own eyes in the mirror as he turned. They were cold, shuttered to the world, nothing like the eyes that had twinkled back at him from this same mirror the night before as Gregory had kissed at the back of his neck and rocked them affectionately with strong arms holding him fast. 

He had grown so used to the happiness there that this old face, though a familiar sight from a time months ago, now frightened him. He had to remember this person however, because his vacation from reality had just come to an abrupt end. He forced himself to keep looking and remind himself of the truth.

_Alone is what I have._

A boyhood mantra he had used often, one he’d instilled in his younger brother until the good doctor stepped off the battlefield and into the warzone that was London in the wake of Sherlock Holmes. You could only know loneliness if you had something to compare it to. Like warm arms and gentle humming, nose pressed just behind his left ear.

_Alone protects me._

And it had, right up until it hadn’t. He had built his walls callused and layered, one after the other in an endless cascade of failsafe design. Except when he had set up the perimeter he had forgotten to check there was no one already inside before sealing it shut.

A trap of his own making.

_What have I done…_

_____

 

His decision to intervene in Gregory’s crumbling life had not been a selfless act. If questioned, he’d cite the strategic importance of his position in the Met and the pivotal role he played in keeping Sherlock engaged and, consequently, clean. He was simply performing maintenance on a crucial asset.

It wasn’t wholly untrue either, but those were reasons _for_ the reason he interfered, that reason being that he had developed an emotional attachment to this man. That attachment had begun to tear at him with every haggard look and wrinkled suit on his CCTV feed. He had stopped being able to sleep until he’d watched the man stumble through his front door after long hours of inebriation. He could clock how many hours of sleep Gregory had gotten by his coffee run frequency before noon, and every day that count hit 4 it was that much harder to watch.

He wasn’t naturally a man of action. He had people for that now, and rarely found it necessary to wade in even in the direst of international crises. So when he decided to redirect his driver to Gregory’s crime scene on the way home that evening it was out of necessity.

It was true that Gregory needed this, but the necessity was his own. He couldn’t afford this distraction any longer, and the sooner he fixed it the sooner he could be back to full capacity. Given the evolving state of the situation in Syria, his nation couldn’t afford his split attentions for much longer.

Collecting him had been laughably easy. He hadn’t even seemed to care where he was going or why, following willingly from the car once they had arrived at Mycroft’s abode at Pall Mall. Once inside, however, he seemed to hit his limit of blind acceptance.

“Umm… Sorry. I'm not really sure what I'm doing here,” he said, visibly confused and frozen in the entryway. Mycroft took pity on him.

“You’re here to rest, first and foremost,” Mycroft explained, pealing off his coat while he answered. He allowed warmth to seep into his voice as he spoke. “Once you’ve had a full night’s worth we’ll get you washed and fed and go from there.”

Gregory didn’t fight the momentum, but the explanation had clearly brought more questions than answers. As he was being herded into the spare bedroom the fog of the day seemed to clear in his eyes and he stopped dead, turning to face Mycroft directly.

“Sorry, wait! Did Sherlock call you? Has John put you up to this? Because I’m fine, really. I don’t need your charity.”

“And you shan’t have it,” Mycroft countered smoothly, moving into the room and setting out the spare silk pyjamas and guest towels he kept in the wardrobe there. “But you will have my hospitality for as long as you are here. Rest.”

And with that Mycroft swept past Gregory’s stunned form in the bedroom door and out to the den for a finger or two of well aged Scotch to fuel the serious strategy session he was going to need to have with himself to make this work. The door behind him had clicked shut moments later. Offer accepted, it would appear. 

_______ 

 

Even with the bathroom door closed and latched Greg could still feel Mycroft’s presence reverberating off the walls, and this was a conversation he needed to have with Sharon. Only Sharon.

Greg pulled on a pair of boxers and a worn t-shirt from the floor before standing and leading the way to their living room. Sharon was slow to follow and stayed in the doorway as Greg made his way to the sofa. He sat on the edge of the cushion slumped slightly, a discordant image of keyed up nerves and exhausted resignation.

Raking his nails through his silvering hair he met Sharon’s gaze again. She didn’t move when he nodded for her to take a seat on the other end of the couch. There were some very important things they needed to discuss, but it looked like she was most of the way through that conversation on her own from the contemplative focus in her shuttered eyes.

“I’m sorry this is how you found out, Sharon, I really am,” Greg began. He didn’t have a plan of where to go from there, so it was good that he was cut off.

“You called him ‘love,’” Sharon said, low but clear. The words hung heavy in the air with the weight of their implication.

“I did,” Greg admitted. He had already decided he was too tired to try for anything but honesty at this point. He didn’t believe it would help, but it was easier than trying to play this sordid game any longer.

Sharon nodded decisively as she looked away.

“Text me when you and your things are gone."

“Sharon…”

Sharon put her hand out, stopping Greg before he could start. The air in the room felt too thick to breathe in.

“I never loved Barry,” Sharon said, as though in explanation. The mention of her partner in infidelity still conjured that familiar sickly weight in his chest even now in the face of his reciprocation. “He was just… there.”

“I’m here,” Greg responded before he could think it through and the look he received for it made him flush with shame.

“So is _he_ ,” she said and turned to pick up the things she had dropped in the hall when she’d arrived. “Inform me when those statements are no longer true." 

And with that – after everything – she was gone.

_______

 

Greg closed the guest room door and turned to look at what had been left for him. It wasn’t really late enough to be turning in, but he couldn’t deny how truly exhausted he was. He thought briefly of texting Sharon that he wouldn’t be home, but dismissed it as absurd. She’d never even notice.

Running the soft silk of the pyjamas through his fingers, he just didn’t feel right donning them with his current level of hygiene. He scooped up the towels and slipped into the guest bath, which was fully stocked right down to a brand new razor and toothbrush by the sink.

A luxurious amount of time later he emerged refreshed and clean, one of the towels riding low on his waist and the other draped around his shoulders to catch any drips from his still damp hair. He had decided against the pyjamas, as silk seemed to seek out damp skin and stick uncomfortably to it. He had not, however, expected the room to be occupied.

Standing by the bedside table, uncharacteristically fidgeting with a glass of scotch, was his host. Greg had not missed the pinking of Mycroft’s cheeks as his eyes lingered on Greg’s exposed stomach and chest before he became absorbed in the glow of his drink in the warm light.

“I, um,” Mycroft struggled to reign back his control, “I assumed, given your chosen deviation from the expected order of activities, that you might be in need of something to aid in your relaxation.”

Mycroft’s slight nod towards the table next to him revealed the second glass of amber liquid. His complete lack of composure revealed something else entirely.

Any other day and he never would have even thought it possible, but Mycroft was every bit the terrified schoolboy in the presence of the object of his affection – that object being Greg. 

It wasn’t something Greg had allowed himself to consider before. He was married and Mycroft was... unavailable, physically and emotionally. But right here, right now, Mycroft was _there_ , and hell if Greg had the willpower left to let an opportunity like this slip away.

_______

 

Mycroft had dressed methodically, expecting to make his escape during the marital meltdown. He had heard Greg migrate the pending argument into the other room, so he knew he had a clear line of escape if he moved quickly enough.

He’d texted his driver to let him know to be waiting outside, on the off chance that Gregory would pursue. He knew that if he had to face his lover his resolve to permanently extradite himself from this domestic disaster would shatter. If Gregory had not yet realized this was the only possible conclusion to their sordid affair, he would soon.

Taking a deep breath he looked into the mirror and saw eyes that reflected nothing of himself. His edges hardened to form the Iceman mask he’d worn for decades, but he only made it a single step from the door before it all shattered around him at the sight of Gregory seated on the edge of the bed, dressed and waiting for him with a duffle slung over one shoulder and garment bag hooked over his arm.

Of all the deductions that flooded in from this sight only one mattered: waiting for _him_.

_______

 

Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected Gregory’s reaction to be when he’d finally given in to temptation and gone to the guest room. He carried his tailor-made excuse along with his own liquid courage, and staged himself near enough to the bed to be suggestive, but with the clear excuse of needing a place to set Gregory’s drink, should his presence not have the desired reaction.

He was overthinking this, but what else was new. In this particular area of human interaction he had done very poorly up to this point. It was the only thing in his life that he had tried where he wasn’t naturally talented, and it had upset him enough that he’d sworn off it entirely.

That’s not to say that he had denied himself release in its various forms, but aside from Richard – which had ended nearly a decade previous – he had never _gotten involved_. Why he was even entertaining the possibility was almost entirely explained by the contents of his glass, which had been refilled more than once in the short time since arriving home.

He had done the calculations and he was no fool. He knew drunken proclamations to an exhausted and emotionally vulnerable potential partner were ill advised and had little chance of progressing past an initial desperate, and likely sloppy, evening encounter.

But he needed this out of his system. He had even convinced himself that the high potential for dissatisfaction in the exchange was a bonus, as it would douse the sparks threatening to consume him.

With morning would come the cold reality of regret and remorse. Gregory would return to his wife heart in hand, confess himself, and they could start anew from a point of mutual betrayal. They would finally have to talk and work this out, and Gregory would return to health and hearth and home and all would be well with the world.

And Mycroft…?

Cold tendrils of panic wormed their way into his chest. In the long minutes waiting for Gregory’s return he had watched the events unfold in his mind’s eye, but what should have been a satisfying conclusion to this little affair had felt like being gutted. This would not end well for him and he had no alternative than to stage a rapid retreat if he wanted to avert disaster.

His sudden change of heart, however, coincided precisely with Gregory’s re-emergence from the adjoining bathroom, throwing him off kilter. His eyes snapped to the man as he entered and he couldn’t help but take in how fit Gregory still was. Mycroft’s gaze raked over the taut and glistening flesh of his abs and chest until they met knowing eyes. It had only been a momentary lack of focus, but he had given away everything.

Grasping for any excuse, he stuttered out his offer of scotch and waited.

Gregory crossed the room with purpose, stopping centimetres from Mycroft, and reached down sightlessly for the glass he’d been offered. With one swift motion he tipped the contents into his mouth, letting the smooth heat linger and coat his tongue before swallowing it all down.

Mycroft huffed indignantly at the act. “That is designed to be savoured,” he chided, but the haughtiness fell away in the face of the unexpected heat in Gregory’s gaze.

“You should savour it then.”

Gregory’s voice was low and husky with promise. He was already moving forward, lips parting, and to both of their delighted surprises Mycroft met him half way. Their lips worked hungrily against each other, and he could taste the echo of the scotch as he chased it into Gregory’s mouth with his tongue.

_______

 

“Hey,” Greg’s voice was soft and vulnerable. He had packed up what things he thought he’d need to function without returning, but where he’d be bringing those things was to be determined by the man before him. The look on Mycroft’s face as he’d entered the bedroom had been shuttered, and something Greg hadn’t seen for months. It would have worried him had it not dissolved so quickly into one of stunned hope. 

“Gregory…?” His name was a whisper on his lover’s lips, a question desperate for confirmation. Greg closed the distance, things forgotten on the bed, to answer those lips with his own. After too short a time he pulled away, not wanting things to escalate just yet.

“I assume Jeremy’s outside with the car?” Mycroft nodded, still not composed enough for words just yet. “And would he have room for another passenger this morning?”

Greg’s not-so-subtle ask had consequences, they both knew it. He was asking if he could move in with Mycroft, and that changed everything. They had not really had time to figure out if what they were doing would be sustainable in the real world, but Sharon – no, their own carelessness – had forced their hand.

“Always,” Mycroft said, wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist and gazing at him with a watery expression before burying his face into the shorter man’s neck. “Always.”

_______

 

Greg knew this was crazy, but the overwhelming wave of emotion that hit him when their mouths locked was impossible to ignore. He felt completely out of control and entirely safe at the same time. He had almost forgotten what being wanted felt like.

His hands scrambled to even out the disparity of their current state of dress, working with surprising focus on each button of Mycroft’s fine waistcoat and shirt. As the shirt finally parted completely at the middle, Greg ran his hands appreciatively between fabric and skin to caress firmly under the vest, up the sides of the ribs and then around to the smooth plane of his back. It had been so long since he’d felt the undeniable musculature of a man in his hands that he gasped against Mycroft’s lips in surprise at how much he’d missed it.

Mycroft pulled away at the sound but didn’t make it far, the backs of his knees hitting the bed and buckling beneath him so he ended up sitting with his face inches from Greg’s abs. His moment of hesitation evaporated at that sight and Mycroft pressed his lips and tongue to every muscle he could, wrapping his arms around Greg’s towel-covered thighs and pulling him between his legs for better access.

Greg’s hands steadied himself on Mycroft’s shoulders, but quickly twined themselves into the strands of soft ginger hair at the back of Mycroft’s neck and head, pressing up against the incredible sensation. His stomach was trembling with the attention, as though the butterflies that were currently rioting in his stomach were making their presence known through his skin.

Greg gasped again as he was pulled roughly forward, his hardening cock now pressed up against the rough material of the towel and trapped against Mycroft’s chest. He looked down to find Mycroft’s head tilted back, his chin pressed into Greg’s sternum, and his eyes focused intensely on Greg’s face, waiting. And, god, did he look delicious in that moment – already ruined, with his hair askew and shirt draped open around him. There wasn’t a hint of the stoic and dangerous British official in those eyes, but there was definitely something primal and Greg’s blood burned to see more of _that_ Mycroft.

Greg nodded, giving permission for Mycroft to continue however he saw fit, and the message of universal consent was clearly received. Mycroft latched his teeth into the towel that separated them and pulled the tucked corner loose at the same time his hand looped into the waist at the back and yanked it free.

Greg stumbled slightly back in surprise, just far enough to give Mycroft the room to slip to his knees and swallow him down in one. The groan that was ripped from Greg’s chest was quickly replaced by a full body gasp as Mycroft swallowed around him and then pulled back with hallowed cheeks and tight lips until he popped free.

With a quick glance up at Greg’s flushed and gaping expression, Mycroft set to work bobbing his head from root to tip like he did this everyday. His lips formed a tight ring that had Greg panting for air almost immediately, and the steady, quick pace Mycroft had set meant this would not last long, but Greg couldn’t care. Every nerve ending in his body was on fire with need, and his pulse thundered in his ears as the last of his control was pulled from him by that heavenly mouth.

Mycroft had taken control of Greg’s tailspin of a life that afternoon and now, this evening, had complete control of his body as well, which he played to perfection. Greg was so close, and his hands, which had fallen to Mycroft’s shoulders, suddenly tensed as his orgasm rushed to the surface. He grabbed the back of Mycroft’s head tightly and held him still, pressing the tip of his cock against the back of Mycroft’s throat until he felt it slide in that much deeper.

Every muscle in his body tensed and, with a scream, Greg came hard down Mycroft’s throat, thrusting through the aftershocks until his knees threatened to give way. He found himself turned and lowered onto the bed, still twitching from the overwhelming experience. He had a vague thought that he should be reciprocating, but the exhaustion of the day (and night) had taken that option away from him.

He reached out as Mycroft pulled away and guided him back in for a long, lazy kiss. He could taste himself on the man’s lips and he wanted more, but his body had reached its limits long before this moment and he was fighting even to stay conscious in this point.

“Rest,” Mycroft whispered into his ear as he kissed passed it and down his neck.

“Stay,” Greg sighed as he succumbed to the darkness.

_______

 

Mycroft had told himself he would not cry over losing Gregory, as he had never really had him to begin with. But he had not prepared himself for the emotional whiplash that was _not_ losing Gregory.

He buried his face into Gregory’s neck and tried to ignore the growing wetness of the fabric under his face. They were going home together, and it was all suddenly too real. Gregory held him and they rocked together soothingly until Mycroft regained composure.

Without another word they gathered up the last of Gregory’s things and made their way into the car. The privacy shield was in place, as always, but before Mycroft could knock on it with his usual signal for returning to his residence Gregory leaned over to the intercom, maintaining eye contact while he pressed it down.

“Takes us home, please, Jeremy,” he said, releasing the button without waiting for a response and gathering Mycroft’s face in his hands to pull him into a passionate kiss.

_______

 

Mycroft heard Gregory’s request to stay, but wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. By the time he’d detached his lips from Gregory’s shoulder he could tell from his breathing that the man was out cold.

He watched for a few moments to make sure, tracing tender fingers down the side of Gregory’s face and across his jaw. Gregory didn’t stir, so Mycroft stood and made his way to the en suite and closed the door. The mirror revealed a man truly debauched, and Mycroft couldn’t help cataloguing the signs where fingers had rucked their way through thinning hair, lips red and swollen slightly from pressure and friction, tear tracks from the corners of his eyes still sticky.

Mycroft bent over the sink and washed his face, running wet fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to return it to its usual kempt state. He stripped off the wrinkled mess that had been one of his favourite bespoke suits – perhaps it could be salvaged by his cleaner – and then donned the guest pyjamas that Gregory had blessedly decided against using.

Returning to the dim light of the room he couldn’t decide if his plan had succeeded or failed. The encounter had been brief, but certainly not clumsy or dissatisfying. Gregory had asked him to stay, out of obligation or sentiment he wasn’t entirely sure, but it felt like a good sign.

But all this made life so much more complicated for the poor man. There would be guilt no matter what, and there was no telling how long this could last before that guilt took its toll, but it was safe to say this – whatever it was – had an expiration date.

Selfishly, Mycroft slipped under the covers beside Gregory. If tonight was it, he was going to have every moment of it. Pressing himself up against Gregory’s side he buried his face into the man’s neck and soaked in the warmth and comfort it provided, a luxury he had only permitted himself with one other.

He tried not to think of Richard, but he absently stroked the gold ring on his right hand with his thumb anyway. They hadn’t been married, they hadn’t even discussed it as an option, but at some point they’d started wearing rings for each other and he’d continued to do so even after there had been no one to wear it for any longer.

Nothing about tonight made him reconsider that decision. It was nice to know that he could have this and still love Richard in his own way. He had missed this, even if he’d never let himself dwell on what could have been. This was only a plaster on a long open wound, and would likely not last long enough to heal it completely, but Mycroft drifted to sleep warm and happy for the first time in far too long.

And when he awoke the next morning well before the sun with Gregory sprawled across his chest, breathing deeply, he knew he’d lost the battle before he’d even had a chance to fight. His fingers lightly caressed what skin he could reach without disturbing Gregory, letting himself soak it in. This felt like home…

_Oh, that that were true._

_______

 

As the car pulled into the drive Greg looked out the window and smiled. It wouldn’t be perfect, it would likely be more challenging than either of them were willing to admit aloud, but there was one thing he was certain of.

For the first time in far too long, he was home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it was clear that this flipped back and forth between the present "getting caught" story and their "getting together" story, where the POV changed each cycle.
> 
> Though Mystrade is my OTP, I acknowledge that this is entirely wishful thinking and my own need for Mycroft to be happy. I think it's much more likely that he would intentionally sabotage his chances out of a misguided distain for sentiment (see my other Mystrade work for a more realistic and cannon compliant Mycroft/Greg angst fest).


End file.
